by B Catling
The doctor just nodded and said, ‘What are we going to do with that thing?’
‘Take it back or kill it. Nobody wants Loverboy here,’ said Maclish, guffawing at his own joke.
Doctor Hoffman saw nothing to be amused about.
Loverboy stood naked, four feet high, in the straw at the back of the cell. His skin was deathly pale, with a yellowish tinge. He had long, thin limbs, and his torso was squat and square. His head grew out from his chest, so that his forehead sloped into his shoulders, putting his tiny mouth level to where human nipples should be. His single eye was level with his armpits, and it blinked, sphincter-like, in the gloom. He did not think much of humans; their only value was in terms of food. He had eaten one two years ago, and their sweet flesh was greatly prized among his people. But they were dangerous to hunt, and many of his tribe had died in the process.
He knew he was the first of his kind to be taken bodily out of the forest, and he did not understand how it had happened. Unseen from the dense undergrowth, they had watched the humans devouring the forest year after year; nothing had ever entered and dragged one of his kind out before. He feared what he had seen so far, and did not understand the cave they kept him in. He did not understand the actions of these tall, ugly creatures; they seemed to use all their emotions at once. He hated the one with red fur: it was known to be cleverer and faster than the herd that it kept for work and food. The screaming ones intrigued him, females he thought, with hideous, extended heads. He became erect thinking about them, and it surprised him. He would have liked to undress one and play with it before he cooked and ate it. But that was for another time. Now he must escape and get back into the Vorrh.
* * *
The Youngman sat on a tree stump by the side of the stream. He was large and quiet. He had his father’s strong nose, but it looked out of proportion in his long, weak face, which had only recently given up the heat of acne; it had begun to cool to a moon-like paleness of craters and dead eruptions. He came to this place to think, to get away from the bustle of the city and the snug, noisy chaos of his family home. He stared at his hands; the little fingers were working again. So were the thumbs, and he rotated them like surprised puppet worms from a meaningless children’s play.
He had just been involved in some accidental street complications; at least, he thought – he secretly hoped – it had been accidental. The Touch, or ‘Fang-dick-krank’ as it had become known, was sweeping the city. It was said that it first came from the touch of miracle: the laying on of hands, the purification of the unclean and the malformed. Then it turned malevolent, eccentric and dangerous. Qualities of kindness were exchanged for vengeance. Some who had been outcast because of their disability had turned malicious after they were healed, and their magic touch was passed on as a curse. They fingered the healthy, and the healthy became impaired; they then carried the taint, not knowing if their touch would injure or aid. It cut them off from their families and friends, making it their turn to become outcasts. A terrible fear of contact spread through the city, locking its inhabitants into themselves, hands in pockets, walking quickly away from all others.
The Touch had become so random that it reached fanatic proportions, causing a plague of the injured and the healed to spread chaotically throughout all of Essenwald. It wreaked havoc among the promiscuous, ruined families and made treatment virtually impossible. It changed social decorum on all levels and, in a city based on commerce, where guilds and classes were firmly demarcated by etiquette and formal social meetings, things started to fray when the niceties were removed. The shaking of hands was no longer a reasonable form of greeting; more arcane forms of meeting were now fashionable: bowing and heel-clicking had returned, as had arm-crossing the chest with a clenched fist, which had not been seen in civilised communities since the Roman Empire. A Teutonic rigidity had returned to this far-flung outpost of a long-dead empire, one that had until then prided itself in stepping away from stiff ancestral history and revelled in its ‘modern’ outlook.
The blacks and the poor were devastated by the Touch. Their ranks exchanged over night, the sick becoming bright, the clean becoming ill. A great madness rose up out of the confusion, and the growing wave of paranoiac fear was far greater than the actual number of those genuinely injured.
* * *
The two women travelled home together in silence. Cyrena dropped Ghertrude off at 4 Kühler Brunnen, and the pair quietly said goodbye as Ghertrude was admitted by a gleeful Mutter.
In the back of the lilac car, Cyrena’s tide ebbed between wrath and frustration, after the shock of seeing that abomination step into the light and look directly at her. She doubted all her memories, and the strands of tensile fibres that normally made her invincible unwound and came apart for a fraction of a second. In that blink of time, she mistrusted all of her pre-sight experience: what if that disgusting creature actually was the person she had slept with in the carnival night? What if it had been his groupings, suckings and penetrations that she had accepted with pleasure and gratitude? What if, worst of all, it had been that thing which had healed her before creeping off into the night?
Yet again, sight had trampled everything else, and she had been lessened by it. Doubt nicked the circulation of her energy and bled her internally, so that now she did not understand why she had been so enthusiastic about seeing Ishmael again. Why had that become the centre of her life? How had she managed to expose her hunger and show her will to these foolish men, what was really in it for her? Had Ghertrude not warned her? Well, perhaps she had, but it had come too late and too weak.
By the time she arrived home, she was exhausted. She wanted to wrap herself in the darkness of the bed sheets and banish all visual memory, to only remember the luxurious depth of her stored library of touch, sound and scent.
Mutter began to fuss around Ghertrude. It was out of character and grotesque, and she could see straight through it. He was delighted that she had come home alone, and did not even want to know why.
Her annoyance quickly turned to indifference as she felt a tickling movement in her abdomen; something tiny, not a kick – it was far too early for that – but something uncurling, becoming awake after a long period of hibernation.
She left Mutter fluttering in the hall, like a heavy, damp moth without a flame. She went to her bedroom to rest; to hold herself tight and to pray that this was not really happening.
* * *
When he awoke, the cow was gone and Charlotte was sitting by his bed. It took a few minutes to remember her name. She brought tea and talked quietly, while he nodded and frowned at her version of the last few days.
The drug that the doctor administered to him was Soneryl; he would use it, and others, for the next thirteen barren years of his life. As its effects wore off, a great, hollow pain opened out inside him. He stopped nodding, and Charlotte’s words lost their meaning. Her voice was like a song, a chanter that made tears rise up and fill his flickering eyes. She stopped when she saw her companion’s growing distress. Moving to his side, she held his small body in her arms. He sat forward, and she saw that his pillow was blotched pink with perspiration and blood. Beneath his silk pyjamas, his wounds and abrasions had been bandaged and covered in lint.
‘It’s alright,’ she said, ‘you are safe now. You are tired and bruised, but without any real injuries. Do you remember what happened to you and your friend?’
‘Friend?’ he said, in a voice that surprised him. ‘What friend?’
Charlotte explained that he had left to meet a man who was taking him into the Vorrh. They had planned to be there for only one day but, in fact, he had been gone for four. She told him of her growing panic and the plans she had been ready to put into place, before she had seen him on the street.
‘What was his name?’ he asked weakly.
‘I don’t know, my dear, you called him many things. I think you said Silka, or something like that?’
‘Silka,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘Well, what
did he look like?’ he murmured.
‘I am sorry, but I did not see him. You said he was young and black.’
‘Did I?’
Charlotte nodded and he thought hard, but there was nothing there. Not a single trace of the last five days existed between this stained pillow and the previous one, which had been bloodied by dream; not even a rind of memory clung to the empty space in his skull. What boiled and hollowed him was below, in his heart: a vast, pleading hurt that sucked at his being, a loss beyond all other feelings, an overpowering sadness that should have been an overpowering joy.
‘Charlotte, I think I am in love,’ he said, tears streaming down his face as his body shook and wheezed in her frightened arms. They stayed like that until he sobbed himself asleep. Charlotte tucked him back into the bed and lowered the blinds against the late, slanting afternoon sunlight. She tiptoed about the room, silently packing their belongings back into the suitcases, trying not to think of what he had just said. The warm, dim quiet was hushed and measured by his rhythmic breathing.
Three days later, he was standing in the lobby of the hotel, dressed in one of his immaculate white suits. Charlotte had booked the ship to carry them home. The monstrous, black mobile caravan chugged outside, waiting, brimming with their possessions. He dithered as he clung to her arm, looking out into the blinding light of the street. His bone Eskimo spectacles had been changed for a much larger, more contemporary pair, which wrapped around his pinched face, making him appear insect-like.
‘Shall we go?’ she asked, squeezing his arm affectionately.
He gulped and nodded, and she guided him through the warm glass doors and down the faltering steps. Just before he entered the massive vehicle, he looked up and into the milling crowd, through the little island of trees which sat across the road. He looked hopelessly for someone he did not know, somebody who might know him; a last chance to repair the tearing wound that was devouring him. He looked for recognition in a wave or a touch or a smile. Nobody in the crowd stood out. Nobody saw him in the brightness and swirling dust. He stepped into the car, and it lumbered out of the city, across the arid landscape, towards the coast. In the passenger wing mirror, which had been adjusted for his view, the dark line of the Vorrh receded until it was erased by haze, dust and vibration. His eyes never left the reflection until they reached the sea.
* * *
Hoffman was walking across the city. He had been called to the house of August Daren, one of Essenwald’s richest businessmen, who had demanded his presence immediately. Daren’s wife had been attacked in the street by a mob of delinquents, who had pulled her from her carriage. He was furious, demanding the criminals be brought to a rough, instant and painful justice. He ranted so much about the perpetrators that he forgot to mention any of his wife’s injuries, and Hoffman had no idea which instruments and medications to bring. Hurriedly, he had shoved a handful of this and a handful of that into his stoutest Gladstone bag. It would not do for him to get on the wrong side of August Daren, especially now that his life had taken such a turn towards prosperity.
He had become quite the authority on the causes and possible treatments of what was commonly becoming known as Fang-dick-krank. He told his patients, the Timber Guild and other municipal authorities that he had carried out extensive research in his private laboratory, and was making steady progress towards a cure of the dreadful blight: in truth, he had carried out a few botched autopsies, treated some of the inflicted with prodigious doses of barbiturates, and questioned some chained prisoners that the police – whom he was now working closely with – brought to him to be examined. His major discovery was that the phenomenon was in decline. This he told nobody, but doubled his extensive efforts to find a cure. He even injected some of the ‘carriers’ with a serum of his own design, and had them released into the community to help stave off the flow of the malicious disorder. With his usual cunning, he would ride his unexpected nag home to a glorious victory of science over evil. He had always been lucky with outsiders, and this one was made of gold.
His status in the community was growing steadily, and he no longer needed to practise the little bits of unorthodoxy that used to perk up his income. In fact, the less said about those, the better. They, and his business with Maclish, nagged at him. Such practices were yawning bear-pits along his successful path of achievement, and he wished they could be spirited away, or else be filled in with some amnesiac aggregate. The Tulp girl’s knowledge of the Orm had rattled him; it was a step too close to downfall. The subsequent fiasco with the wretched creature they had mistakenly dragged out of the Vorrh had made the whole situation even worse. The Lohr woman was very well connected: a word in the right place could dislodge all his achievements. He knew it was only the concealment of their one-eyed friend that kept those words from being spoken. His knowledge of the cyclops’ existence protected him.
His association with Maclish was proving troublesome, and it worried at his confidence; the irascible Scot was far beneath him now and unpredictable in his mood swings. Moreover, the thug always blamed him when something went wrong. And wrong was an understatement: they had now used the Orm nine times, and two of those had gone seriously awry. He still believed that the savaging of the Klausen hag had been the Orm’s first outing, and it had led the police straight to his door. All these troubles gnawed at him as he strode purposefully on, towards his undiagnosed patient. His priorities needed to be re-focused and he made his mind up to rid himself of this handful of anxieties as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He was clever enough to silence the women with guile and threat, but the keeper was another matter. That cat would have to be skinned another way.
* * *
Maclish was going to be honoured. The guild had invited him and his wife to a special dinner, to mark the company’s increase in productivity; his work force was the greatest contributor to it, and it was cheaper to give an honour than a raise.
Mrs. Maclish hadn’t been to anything quite so formal for a long time, and she was feeling apprehensive. The bulge of new life was just beginning to show, and she was mildly troubled that it made her look plump, rather than pregnant. They were dressing in the bedroom: he, fumbling and cursing with a collar stud; she, turning and glancing at herself in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe.
‘William, which do you think: the blue or the green?’
‘I only just bought ye the blue one, wear that.’
‘Yes, but which do you think is best for tonight? The green is more my colour.’
‘Then why did we buy the blue?’ he said crossly, as the stud sprang from his fingers and disappeared under the bed. He cursed and crawled after it, his shiny black dress trousers ruffling up the small carpet. She ignored his response.
‘It’s a choice between them though, I only have the two.’
‘Thank Christ for that, or we would be here all night!’ he said from under the bed, his voice humming strangely in the resonance of the china chamberpot. He found the stud and crawled out to start pulling at his collar again.
Marie Maclish was not normally a woman to engage with such coquettish uncertainty; the rest of her stern life was run on simple facts and basic commodities, but she was enjoying herself. This little charade of choice took her back to the highlands, to her grandmother’s house and the girls’ play of dressing up in women’s lives.
He had finished with the collar but his twisted tie looked limp and apologetic. He was admiring it, when she laughed.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘What? Oh William, look at the state of it!’
‘The state of what?’
She put the dresses down and went over to adjust the tie, smiling playfully. He bristled at her touch. The more she pulled, the more he stiffened. As her smile fizzled out, his warmth drained away.
‘It was perfectly fine, woman, now it’s a mess,’ he said, pushing her fingers away. ‘We haven’t got time for this, we can’t be late.’
She said nothing and went back
to her dresses; they seemed shrunken and indifferent. He looked over his shoulder.
‘Where’s the blue?’ he said, against the fret of disappointment that was filling the room. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about, it’s not you they will all be watching tonight,’ he concluded, grabbing his coat and yanking the door open.
She watched him disappear out of the room. After a few static moments, she dressed and went down to wait beside him for the arrival of the car to take them to the celebration. She looked graceful and quiet, standing in front of the house, her hair and eyes accentuated by the green of the dress, her husband too caught up and curt to notice.
The doctor waited for ten long minutes after the headlights of the car had vanished from the road. Then he made his way to the reinforced door of the slave house, letting himself in with a set of keys that nobody knew he had. He put his bag down on the central table and lifted the bundle out. He was just about to strike the gong when he heard a footfall on the metal stair. He turned to see the herald of the Limboia descending slowly, a vacant grin on his face.
‘For Orm?’ said the herald in flat, dead tones.
‘Yes,’ said the doctor nervously. He had never been here without Maclish, and the place and these creatures unnerved him. His skin crawled every time he came close to the herald.
‘What to do?’ it asked.
The doctor explained the specific requirements of the task and how it must be done. ‘You won’t need a scent or a trace this time,’ he insisted and the herald seemed to agree.
‘This time seeing one stays, stays till after.’
The doctor thought for a moment, nodded, picked up his bag and left. The herald tenderly picked up the bundle and held it to his chest.
That was that. Now he would talk to the insolent Tulp girl and hush her defiance; she was in no position to argue, not in her condition. He made an appointment to call on her, and was surprised at the address. He had never been to 4 Kühler Brunnen, but knew of it; he had conducted business by association and at a distance with it. Why did she live there? Surely it was not a property owned by her father or some other member of her significant family?